


Domestica

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, Not much plot, One-Shot, Romance, drabble-like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: After a long day, an exhausted Red and Liz share a meal together and Red gets a little overwhelmed.





	Domestica

“Do you want to come in?”

In a long day of pursuing one of the most disgusting criminals on his blacklist, a day fraught with peril and danger, now permeated with fatigue and hunger, this is the one instance that surprises him the most. Lizzie, standing in front of her apartment, facing him, dark circles under her eyes that he wants to kiss and caress until they disappear, asking him this question.

Red blinks in surprise, feeling the considerable difficulty with which he pries them open again. He feels as exhausted as she looks.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

The temptation is strong, as tired as he is, to accept her invitation, but prolonged contact between them, especially non-work related, has not been a good idea lately. Eventually one of them will jump from the relative safety of inane conversation to the unsteady ground of more sensitive topics. Tempers flare, patience is lost, and someone ends up yelling. 

Usually her.

And after the long day they’ve had, running around in constant danger, Red worrying every second for her safety, he doesn’t think he can hold his own with her in an inevitable argument. He’s more likely to let something important slip or just give in completely and lay himself down at her feet. 

And as much as that should bother him, he’s more worried about her. From the looks of her, he doesn’t think she has the energy to scream and yell and throw him out of her apartment like she usually does, and he doesn’t want her to collapse out of sheer exhaustion and frustration. She hasn’t been taking care of herself and he doesn’t want to her hurt herself even more on his account.

(The fact that everything bad in her life is all his fault anyway weighs heavily on his shoulders every moment of the day.)

But she’s still standing there, looking at him, and sighs exasperatedly. 

“Red, come on,” she says on a heavy exhale. “I’ve been with you all day since half past eight this morning and I know I’m starving, which means you have to be too. It’s already quarter to ten so please just come in and have some food.”

And she turns around without waiting for him to protest or accept or splutter indignantly and strides right into her apartment, leaving the door wide open behind her.

All right then. 

(And although this is surely an awful idea, bound to blow up in his face, he finds he can’t stop himself wanting to prolong his time with her at this late and vulnerable hour, and his hallmark trait of self-destructive curiosity propels him into the apartment after her.

What’s new?)

He shuts the door gently behind him, feeling a familiar sense of foreboding as the lock clicks. He takes a fortifying breath before turning around, trying in vain to prepare himself for whatever comes next.

(And he wonders why he’s trying.)

Red moves forward into the living room to peer around the partition and look into the kitchen, taking in the sight of Lizzie puttering around, moving from stove to fridge and back again, gathering ingredients for some kind of meal, before he blinks and his brain processes exactly what he’s seeing. 

She’s different.

Lizzie has tossed her bag near one of her armchairs and shed her shoes not far from that. Red’s eyes trip down to her feet to see socks instead of shoes. It’s a simple thing, and it’s certainly not meant for him, but he becomes mesmerized by it anyway. 

(The fact that he’s privy to the sight of Lizzie’s sock feet is a wild and exhilarating thought.)

Red’s eyes move back upwards as Lizzie’s hands catch his attention and he watches in breathless awe as she pulls a hair tie from her slacks pocket and quickly twists her hair up into a loose bun. The motion is so natural and graceful and like nothing he’s ever seen before that he just stares like an idiot.

(He loves her hair. Sometimes he wonders what it feels like.)

After a moment, Lizzie speaks without looking up, busy with something at the counter.

“Are you going to come and sit down?”

Red almost laughs out loud. Lizzie is asking all the difficult questions tonight it seems. The sheer absurdity of it all, the thought of being invited to sit at Lizzie’s kitchen island, awaiting a meal made by her, in her sock feet and a messy bun, no less, is…

Well, not what he expected from tonight.

He moves forward like a zombie, following her lead and shedding his coat, slinging it over the back of one of her tall kitchen chairs before perching gingerly on it. 

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“Uh,” she thinks for a moment. “No, that’s okay. I’m making the one thing I’m pretty confident I won’t burn. Grilled cheese sound okay?”

Red cranes his head to look at what Lizzie is doing at the counter and sees her buttering bread smoothly and quickly, setting each piece aside as she finishes them. He notices a frying pan heating on one of the stove burners next to her as well as a pack of artisan cheese and a sliced tomato on the counter.

Red feels his stomach growl.

“That sounds just fine, Lizzie.”

He continues to watch her, his mind in a bit of a haze. It seems as though his vision is a little blurry around the edges of her, as if she is in the center of his focus, the most important part, and every little thing around her irrelevant in comparison.

(Well, he supposes that’s not wrong.)

Here, now, he relishes in the opportunity to watch her undisturbed, no third-party frowning at his unshakable focus, his disarming gaze as he looks at her how he prefers to. Even more rare is the chance to see her without any awkwardness permeating the air around them. She tends to get uncomfortable when he stares too long or too hard, as he is wont to do. 

(He doesn’t blame her. He supposes that devotion is a little like headlights. Difficult to look at straight on.)

Right now, with her back to him, surely, she can feel him staring (and the thought makes him warm pleasantly) but he detects no trace of stiffness in the line of her shoulders and he certainly can’t see a frown on her face, none of her normal indications that he’s unnerving her. She must be too tired to pay him any mind tonight.

(What a rare gift this night is.) 

Red’s gaze drifts down from her soft-looking bun, ghosting over the elegant line of her neck, to the fabric of her light blue blouse, such a gorgeous color with her skin, so unlike the drab black she has taken to wearing lately. Over her pale, freckled arms revealed by the short sleeves of her blouse to her delicate wrists, now bending this way and that as she picks up bread and places it gingerly on the frying pan. Across to her hands, long-fingered and able, wrestling briefly with the package of cheese before she manages to peel it open and pull a slice from inside, turning to add it on top of a piece of bread. To her face, now in profile to him as she stares at the half-made sandwich on the pan, waiting for the cheese to get warm, her brow slightly furrowed and her tongue absentmindedly running over her lips. 

Tell-tale signs of impatience, for once not directed at him. She’s hungry. Red feels his lips turn up slightly at the corners, quite without his permission. He could watch her for hours. She’s fascinating.

(And beautiful.)

She moves again now, reaching for the plate of tomatoes and taking a slice gingerly in between her fingers before moving it quickly to the sandwich on the pan, then adding another piece of bread to the top with her other hand. But she’s not quite quick enough and he sees a few drops of tomato juice run down the side of her hand, leaving little paths in their wake. 

This is a sight in itself but then his wide eyes follow as she quickly brings her hand up and swiftly licks the juice off her hand, apparently without a thought for his sanity, which is rapidly deserting him. 

(How is he supposed to handle this?)

Her tongue appears again, this time just peeking out from between her lips as she picks up a spatula and holds it determinedly like a weapon, staring down at the sandwich sternly before placing her fingertips on the top to hold it still, slowly sliding the spatula under and then quickly flipping it over in a flash, a beautiful golden-brown color appearing as the uncooked side goes down. 

And Lizzie’s little triumphant grin to herself almost has Red melting out of his seat like the cheese in the sandwiches, completely at her mercy, anything she wants, he’ll do with question, all she has to do is ask and –

“Red, can you pour drinks for me? Glass are in the upper left cabinet above the sink.”

That will do.

Red pulls himself together enough to stand from the island and move to the sink, reaching up for the two glasses, Lizzie successfully flipping more sandwiches as he does so. He pauses once the glasses are on the island, frowning to himself.

“Lizzie?”

“Hm?”

“What do you want to drink?”

He feels a thrill at the simple question, immediately berating himself for his stupid reaction. What should such a basic question be exciting to him?

(Because it’s something intimate to ask, something people who eat together ask, something people who care about each other ask.  
Something new.)

“Milk, please. There should be a half gallon in the fridge.”

Red blinks at her answer, taken aback. 

“Milk?”

“Yeah,” Lizzie says simply, moving past him in a sudden rush to get plates from the cabinet next to the one with the glasses. “I always drink milk with comfort food like this.”

It’s this little fact that punches him in the gut, this little tidbit about Lizzie that he would have no way of knowing otherwise, if she didn’t choose to tell him about it while making them grilled cheese sandwiches in her apartment at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. 

(He wonders how much more of this he can take.)

“I think I have some wine in there too, if you’d prefer.”

Her suggestion pulls Red from his moment of awe-induced silence. 

“No, no, milk is just fine.”

Fine, fine. Everything is ‘just fine’ tonight. The kind of ‘just fine’ that a shooting star is on a dark night or a rainbow on a sunny day. ‘Just fine’ mixed with a little wonder and beauty and stunning.

(He thinks he feels himself quickly approaching some sort of invisible limit.)

Red pours milk in both of their glasses and sets them on either side of the island, just in time for Lizzie to whirl around and set two plates down, each with two sandwiches, perfectly cooked, complete with gooey cheese and ripe tomato. 

“Ta da.”

She says it with just a touch of derision, fatigue bleeding back into her voice as she sits down to eat.

“They look delicious, Lizzie.”

He says it warmly, sincerely, because they do, his mouth is watering just looking at them and he wants her to know how much he appreciates this, this amazing gift she’s giving him tonight. 

The sandwiches and everything else.

She murmurs her thanks at his praise without looking at him and he takes the cue to sit as they both dig in. Too hungry to talk or communicate, they just eat, companionably in comfortable silence, together. 

(Together.)

He can’t help but occasionally glance up at her in between bites, just cautious little looks that she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes remain trained on her sandwiches, disappearing quickly from her plate, in between swigs of milk at regular intervals. She only gets up once to get them both napkins, handing him his without a word. He keeps up with her, matching her almost bite for bite so they’ll be finished at the same time, not wanting to outstay his tenuous, magical welcome. 

As they start on their second sandwiches, he sees her eyes begin to droop a little, looking heavier than they did before. The sight makes his own eyes ache and his him hurting in other places for her, like his heart and soul.

(He’s much too soft tonight.)

Once they’re both finished, Lizzie takes their plates and glasses without a word and places them in the sink. Red is about to protest, tell her he’ll take care of the washing, but she turns and leaves them there, presumably too tired to bother with it tonight. She leans on the sink and faces him instead.

“Thank you for dinner, Lizzie,” he murmurs to her. He’s feeling warm and fuzzy now, sleepy as well as the exhausted he was already, two completely different sensations muddling his mind.

“You’re welcome.”

He gazes at her, his own eyes drooping a little. She’s so pretty, leaning there, looking at him, soft and open. He’s all kinds of tired now and he can’t wait to just lay his head down somewhere and close his eyes, he really can’t –

“Do you want to stay?”

And there it is, there’s the line he was quickly approaching. He knows without a doubt that that’s the most he can take tonight without something happening that shouldn’t right now and it’s time for him to leave. 

(It’s rather like he’s just finished an indulgently rich piece of cake, chocolate and delicious, and someone just came and set another one down in front of him. He can’t take any more without getting sick from the sheer joy of it.)

Lizzie seems to see the panic in his eyes. 

“The couch,” she hurries to clarify unnecessarily. He never assumed she meant anything else. “The couch is really nice, and I have some spare pillows and blankets, you could –”

“No, thank you, Lizzie.”

It’s best to cut her off, she’s struggling to make sense with her words, and him, well, the images she’s conjuring in his mind are just too incredible to handle and yes, it’s time for him to go. 

He gets up, takes his coat, and heads for the door and she follows wordlessly, seeing him out, even though she clearly wants nothing more than to turn down the back hallway and go to sleep. That makes him happy.

(She cares tonight, at least a little.)

The reach the door and he opens it before turning around the take her in. This night has been incandescent in its domestic way and he’ll be thinking about it for days, analyzing all the little idiosyncrasies he observed from Lizzie tonight, letting it all sink in slowly, too much to absorb in one short night.

“Good night, Red.”

Lizzie is standing in the doorway, watching him, and he feels odd leaving her there because he’ll probably see her again tomorrow but things will be different. Maybe not for her but that’s not unusual.

(He’s used to being the only one invested in this. It’s a cross he bears.)

They’ll see each other again tomorrow and they’ll be rested and alert and back on the defensive and the softness from tonight will have disappeared with the light of day. When the sun rises, so will their normal states of being, the Red and Liz they are with one another, and she will poke and prod and pick until he has to snap because he only wants to protect her, even if she doesn’t understand. Tomorrow, things will be different and tonight will probably never happen again.

“Good night, Lizzie.”

Tomorrow, they’ll start again.


End file.
